Hughson A-Z: Please
by deeedeee
Summary: Exceedingly NSFW, but lovingly so. Please as a verb and please as a plea... Carson wedding night awkwardness turns amorous. Spoilerlerrrt? 6.3 because of their honeymoon location and her dress, I suppose.
1. Chapter 1

**At last this thing is happening. I've been working on it for** ** _too long_** **. A sprawling first night for the newlywed Carsons. It's in two parts because it was just too damn long. Enjoy!**

* * *

At last they're on their own in Scarborough. The door to their little holiday cottage is closed. And locked. And there's tea waiting on the kitchen table — little sandwiches and a steaming pot, delivered at just the right time.

She rather wishes there were a little something stronger too. Her thoughts keep flitting about because she's trying to ignore the pounding of her heart. She's taking off her hat and she glances up at him to see dark eyes and hesitation.

He's standing on the other side of the little table, his hands resting lightly on the back of the chair.

"You're beautiful," he says, and his voice is both soothing and alarming (melting, velvet, a little rumbling, a half-whisper).

She wants to rush to him. And she wants to hide. Instead she stands completely still, her back almost literally up against the door.

To him she looks almost afraid. His little smile turns to a forlorn expression as he worries that he might have pushed too hard with his little compliment.

Feeling quite nervous, she hums, then remembers her manners and manages a little gasped "thank you." Her eyes flick up to his for only a second, then back down. She looks anywhere but at him. The table, the windows, the fireplace, needless on this warm day but stocked with coal nonetheless, she notes approvingly.

With nothing for her hands to do, she finds herself smoothing down the lines of that beautiful coat. It's completely unnecessary, of course. Her gloved fingers toy with the velvet edges.

Gloves. Right, they should probably come off.

She looks down at them and with a little smile, starts pulling at the fingers.

It is the most erotic thing he can recall ever seeing. His mouth drops open and he gasps, an audible intake of breath that makes her freeze in place, her eyes questioning.

"Are you alright?" she asks him, stupidly. She can see he is both perfectly well and not well at all, but what to do about it? She can't very well stride over there and kiss him. Can she? She is a married woman, after all. But what if he thinks it improper? She couldn't bear it if he rejected her now. He won't. She's sure of it... in her mind. But how that translates into action remains maddeningly unclear.

He was gazing intently at her hands a moment ago. Why? Has she done something wrong? No, surely not, but maybe there's something, a stain, a drop of punch...? He's looking back at her now, but she loses their little staring contest, dropping her gaze down to examine the dove-grey fabric.

He lets out a heavy breath when she looks down. Her eyes snap back up to his and all at once he realizes how uncomfortable he's making her. He's got to give her some privacy. He starts to turn around but she stops him.

"Mr Carson, is something wrong?"

Her quiet voice sounds pleading; it shakes almost as much as it did when they stood together in the drawing room back at Downton. When she explained her wishes for their reception in that soft, tremulous voice, she gently claimed yet another tract of territory in his heart. It belongs almost completely to her. Elsie Hughes and the Crawley family have taken him over entirely, but the balance shifts more in her direction with every little bit of herself that she reveals.

But enough of that. She's standing there looking at him, waiting for a response, looking awfully troubled, which makes no sense to him.

He gives himself a little shake.

"Er. No, no, of course not," he says, and attempts to dismiss her concerns with his light tone and a wave of his hand.

She hums vaguely. It sounds like what she did when he first kissed her. He's still standing there staring at her like an idiot (a lecherous idiot at that, he tells himself, getting all hot and bothered about her gloves coming off), going mad with this stupid table between them.

The table. Ugh. He steps back, walks around it and approaches her. He's still five feet away from her when he stops. She's staring at him, a little smile starting to curl her lips. It's teasing and joy all in one, because she's realizing something — against all odds; how on earth they've managed to bring it all to the surface enough to marry is beyond her, but there's so much still hidden away. Not just their bodies, but stories and emotions and things they might never get to, with all the time they don't have, but sad thoughts like that are not helpful.

She's on the second glove already and she smiles up at him, still standing so far away, and extends her gloved hand to him.

His eyebrows fly up and there it is, that gentle expression of shocked relief (the butler disappears when he looks at her like that).

She nods, stepping closer to him. He takes her hand in both of his and asks permission with his eyes. She nods again, her eyes closing at the touch of his hand through the fabric (a slow cat-blink, love and desire and shaking breath, her eyes open again and she looks up at him, differently than before, her eyes demanding, heated, pleading all at once).

He held her hand reverently in his today as he slid the ring into place; it cost her some effort to refrain from a small gasp as he did it. The memory of cool metal and his warm hands and the tender way he touched her, cradling her hand in both of his, makes her feel both steady and unbalanced even now. This time she does gasp as he tugs at the fingers of her glove. He's gently holding her wrist, skin to bare skin — it feels more intimate than anything they've done before.

The fabric slides from her fingers, across her palm, and here is her bare hand, polished nails, slender fingers, irresistible. Holding the glove and trying absurdly to fold it in one hand, he raises her naked hand to his lips and closes his eyes at the sound off her soft, high hum.

His kisses to her palm and to her wrist make her short of breath. Distracted for a moment by the fidgeting of his other hand, she takes the glove from him and lays them both on the table — with one hand, thank you; she's not about to pull away from what he's doing. Now he's kissing her fingertips and letting them go; he doesn't want to hold her here if she doesn't want him to. Her little sounds are encouraging, but what if she doesn't want it like this? What if she tires of him? What if he can't please her? But she's not tired of him, it would seem, because she's carefully, slowly laying her hand on his shoulder to pull him in close to her.

It's a gentle touch, a tentative one, and she needs his encouragement. She's grateful when he leans closer. Heart pounding, she moves her hand up to his neck. And impulsively, she goes up on tiptoes and pulls him down to her and kisses him. He startles half a second before leaning in, softening into the kiss, letting her lower herself onto her heels again. This time it's his hum that she hears. Encouragement indeed.

His hands find her face, as if to assure himself this is real.

They come apart for air. The kiss was still fairly chaste, but neither of them is ready to part yet, to lose contact. No, they cling to one another, his hands on her shoulders, hers trapped between them.

They very badly want to go further but how, when exactly… these questions seem insurmountable.

"Erm... Tea?" she asks weakly.

Oh, but _that's_ delightful. He's never been so happy to see her flustered.

"Would _you_ like tea?" he asks her evenly, holding her gaze.

"Erm, no, not particularly."

And she looks up at him again, those eyes of hers hungry and shy all at once.

"Perhaps we should..." He begins, and trails off. He absently takes one of her hands in one of his own, holding it gently in the space between them.

"...er..." She can't speak either. Why must it be so awkward between them?

They both smile at each other, helpless eyebrows high on their foreheads. Each of them is unaware that the other is also cursing their long years of flawless propriety and restraint.

Then he remembers something. He gives her hand a squeeze and almost kisses it, but speaks instead. His voice is gentle and smooth again, to her immense relief.

"I've got a bottle of wine in my case, if you'd like —"

"Yes," she interjects, a bit too quickly. He pauses for half a second to appreciate how charming that little outburst was, before kissing her hand, releasing her, and turning away to retrieve the wine.

She finds glasses for them and they sit together. Well, too far apart, really. It's awkward again, facing one another across the table.

"Might we... move to the sofa?" she suggests. Any more of this nonsense and she feels she'll keel over from exhaustion.

"Er, yes, let's," he replies gratefully.

And they sit together. A little closer than before. Much closer, really. The pounding of her heart makes a mockery of any thoughts she might have had of exhaustion. She dares relax into him a little — it's much like the way they sit together in the pews. She takes a deep breath, trembling a bit. This is _nothing_ like the way they sit together in church.

She downs the rest of her glass in one go. It's not much, but it's more than a usual sip and he notices. Of course he does; for weeks (months, maybe years) he's been highly attuned to her smallest movement, looking for hints, trying to decipher this new version of her that joked (only it wasn't a joke) about checking her hair in the looking glass.

"Mrs Hughes, I…"

She giggles. Nervously. He can't take it; it's too adorable, so he laughs a little too. Also nervously.

"What is it?" he manages.

"I just — this. You calling me Mrs Hughes here, on our honeymoon. It's not as if we were working _now_."

Oh good Lord he's put his foot in it, and he's got to fix it.

"No. You're right," he says with a small smile. Elsie..."

"Yes?" Oh but her heart is pounding even faster than before.

"Would you..."

Silence.

She closes her eyes in frustration, furrowing her brow, pressing her lips together.

But it's difficult for him too; he's afraid he'll be a disappointment and that he won't please her. What's more, he's afraid that he won't _please_ her, that he can't do anything for her with his aging body and his lack of experience. He knows women are supposed to enjoy it too, but how exactly... He simply doesn't know how to touch her.

In more than one way, he doesn't know how to touch her: most obviously, he doesn't know what she'll like. But even worse, he doesn't know how to go about _starting_ to touch her. It's horrible and embarrassing and if only they had someth—

Ah. Right. He gulps his wine too and leans away to reach for the wine bottle. He asks her with his eyebrows whether she'd like another and she nods.

"Thank you." Her voice is barely a whisper. She finds she's alternating between hating her nerves and enjoying the thrill. Her side felt cold when he moved away to get the wine and now it's warm again. She's not sure how she feels about the fact that she can't seem to use her vocal cords. It's all a bit absurd.

"Charles?" she asks eventually.

"Hmm — " He's just taken a sip, but he holds up his hand, gently of course, but she waits. Something about hearing his given name — that form of it — from her lips doesn't quite sit right with him, so he swallows his wine, takes a deep breath, and dares himself to say it. Hopefully she won't laugh at him.

"I was wondering... if you wouldn't call me Charlie."

Her eyebrows up, she laughs, one syllable. It crushes him. Visibly. Urgently, she takes his free hand and squeezes it.

"I'm not laughing at you, Mr Ca—"

Now this is just confusing. And silly, she tells herself as she takes a breath and tries it out.

"Charlie." She likes it. And there's an audible smile in her voice.

They look at each other for a moment — too long, apparently, because for some reason it's awkward again. He's just got to ask her before his breath catches in his throat, so the words rush out of him —

"Elsie, may I kiss you?"

At her nod (bitten lip tinysmile with sparkling eyes), he takes their glasses and puts them on the table.

He turns back to her. It feels a bit like yesterday in her sitting room, only now there are no prohibitions. Which is both thrilling and terrifying.

With one hand resting gently against her cheek, he leans in. And her eyes slide closed as they kiss, soft and slow. This time it really is a moan that escapes her, a soft, high sound of ...something. Finding that sound very encouraging, he pulls back to look at her and sees heavy-lidded eyes and rosy cheeks and parted lips — and so he pulls her to him to kiss again (she kisses him right back and hears something rushing in her ears). The hand that was soft at her cheek now moves to her hair, caressing it — she feels bold indeed as she covers his hand with hers — but he worries that this isn't what she wants, so he pulls away. But no — she presses his hand there and then surprises him by finding a pin, which she pulls out and hands to him.

Happy disbelief as he realizes what she's done, and what she's inviting him to continue.

She watches him, fascinated by the concentration on his face as he carefully undoes the meticulous work of Anna and Miss Baxter.

The pins come out one by one and he holds them clutched in his hand, not knowing what else to do with them. She gently uncurls his fingers and takes the pins, giving him permission to deposit the rest into her open palm. It means he gets to touch her hand over and over.

From time to time a pin will snag and he slows down, unwinding it carefully while bravely leaning in to kiss her cheek, her neck, her temple. Anywhere he can reach, he wants to kiss her there. She deserves to be adored. Covered with kisses.

She knew he felt deeply, but she wasn't there to witness the way he spoke of her to Mrs Patmore. Now she's getting some idea of the depth of his feeling for her. It's overpowering. Kisses to her neck make her shiver — who knew it could be like this? The desire (she knows it's that, yes, and she's got no word for arousal, but that's what it is) grows, warmth flooding her body. If pressed, she might have said she felt hot and cold all at once.

Her little sighs, hums, and whispers give him the courage to run his hands through her hair. He thinks he's got all the pins out, but no — here's one more. He'd like to lay her down (he's shocked at himself for that, a bit, but not really) and he won't have pins poking her, so he checks thoroughly.

He ends up caressing her scalp, massaging her neck, indulgently touching her, burying his face in her hair, kissing her neck. Overwhelmed, she simply drops her hands into her lap and lets her head loll to the side to give him access. She's languid and limp, feeling weightless and heavy all at once.

Here's an unfamiliar feeling: her corset is bothering her. She wears the thing every day — she doesn't love it, but she's quite used to it. But now she wants to breathe more deeply (she wants to move in ways she's never done before) and wants to touch him as well. It's hard to ask him to stop. But she manages it, on a gasped breath.

"Charlie..."

She pushes gently on his shoulders and he lifts his head to look at her, his eyes full of desire, confusion, and the hint of an apology, which she immediately wants to soothe away. And she does: with a boldness new to her, she brings a hand to his face, brushing a thumb across his lips. He surprises her by closing his eyes and kissing her thumb. At her soft gasp he opens his eyes again, giving her a shy, unnervingly charming smile that makes her heart pound away in her chest.

With her hand under his chin, she gently tilts his face up toward her and kisses his lips. He inhales sharply through his nose and brings his hands to her face again. Cautiously, they open their mouths just slightly; it's thrilling to feel and even more exciting to think of the fact that they're finally doing this.

But _this_ isn't quite what she wants. It isn't enough. She needs more of him; she needs less _between_ them. Her hand drifts down to land on his tie, her fingers curling around it and brushing against the shirt beneath it. They break apart to breathe when he gasps at that unfamiliar touch. Not quite able to look into his eyes, she brings both hands up to undo the knot. She'd like to pull the tie off, slide it out from under his collar, but that seems too bold.

 _Bolder than undoing the top button?_ she asks herself as she does just that, while biting back a rueful grin. Her eyes flick up to him. He's not moving a muscle, nothing — the man isn't even breathing. And her hands suddenly go still. Has she gone too far? Surely not. He wants her, doesn't he? This is maddening. She needs some encouragement, some sign from him.

He lays his hands over hers as if to stop her. But the way he looks at her seems to be telling her something else. She pulls her hands back. Tears are just starting to form in her eyes; annoyed, she blinks them away. He sees it, understands her uncertainty, and with one hand behind her head, he pulls her close for one kiss, a soft, quick thing, undoes the next button, and places her hands back at the opening of his shirt. She inhales quickly, biting her lip yet again.

Seeing his chance, he touches her cheek and runs his thumb over that lip, making her gasp. He looks down at her hands undoing his buttons; she's made it through two more but the shaking of her hands is making it difficult.

"Elsie," he whispers.

She looks up at him, a nervous smile on her face. She's embarrassed about her nerves, making it very difficult indeed to break free of them.

And now he's calling her by her name and she can't even get words out.

"Hmm?" She manages.

"Would it be terribly forward of me..."

She presses her lips together, eyes smiling, then pleading for him to continue.

"...ahem, if I were to suggest that we move, er, to… to the..." His throat seems determined to close up.

She's beginning to realize that he's as nervous as she is, bless him. And that allows her to speak, even if it is only a whisper.

"...to the bedroom?"

He nods, barely.

"No," she says, her voice trembling. When he looks devastated, she shakes her head, her hands leaving his shirt to start oddly fluttering. Breathless, she manages "I mean it's not too forward of you, Charlie."

He smiles, sagging with relief. And he stands, the ends of his tie hanging loose, his hand extended to her. She thinks vaguely of a knight helping a lady.

She takes his hand and together they make their way to the bedroom.

He closes the door behind them. Then he wonders whether that was perhaps unnecessary (there's no one else here) or if he's made her feel trapped (heaven forbid, though he thinks he knows she wants him, but he would never press her) but in the end he thinks no, it would have been most improper to leave it open. Shaking his head in frustration, he moves away from the door.

 _This is ridiculous,_ she thinks.

She's standing there with her hair floating around her shoulders, with empty hands that want to touch him. And the ring is shining on her finger. There's nothing stopping them except their own hesitations.

He turns to look at her in the soft light of the lamps, wondering vaguely when exactly she switched them on. She takes his breath away. He wants to ravish her, lift handfuls of her hair, release her from the cloth and bone of her corset, feel the soft warmth of her pressed against him — and _yes_ , he badly wants to touch the secret, hidden parts of her, the mere thought of which is causing a stirring ( _finally, hopefully_ ) in his trousers. This is much more difficult than it should be, he thinks.

But that thought alone — _this should be easy what's wrong with you old man she's right there and you can't manage to_ — is enough to send his frightened heart pounding again, and he loses the beginnings of … well.

She's fiddling with her hair as he stares at her. He blinks, realizing she's watching him, and he clears his throat. He opens his mouth twice before he can speak.

"You're so beautiful," he tells her at last. He's repeating himself but he can't help it.

A sad little laugh escapes her and she looks down, shaking her head and wringing her hands together.

 _Aha_. She doesn't believe him? Maybe this is what will save them, he thinks wildly. And he crosses the room in a few long strides. Her eyes go wide, but they slam closed as he places his hands at her waist (she startles and sways toward him) and he kisses her, pouring all his emotion and desire into it. Surely she must understand that he means it. That he wants her desperately. She hums softly, longer than before, the time he kissed her in his pantry.

His hands tense at her waist and he pulls her closer. The coat from her Ladyship starts to slip off her shoulders and he breaks the kiss, bringing his hands to her shoulders to slide it off of her. Instantly she's afraid. Her dress isn't much to look at ( _let alone what's under it_ , she thinks bitterly).

But he slips the coat off and steps away to drape it over the back of a chair. In one smooth movement, and unaware of how seductive it looks, he swiftly pulls his tie free. The end of it snaps against the starched cotton of his collar before snaking through, and her breath catches in her throat. He drapes it over her coat, silk against velvet, the first articles of their clothing that have ever lain together.

When he turns back to her, she feels naked. She fixes her eyes on the open buttons of his shirt. He sees her nervously biting her lip and he smiles, a gentle, dark, erotic smile. Somehow, a shift has happened since they've entered the bedroom: the more nervous she is, the more inclined he is to reassure her. He wants her to know just how awfully he wants her, and so it is that now he approaches her with open hands, offering her... offering her everything. She puts her hands in his and he kisses them, one after the other.

Her mouth is open in a little "o" of surprise — and now he's turned and is pulling her toward the bed. She smiles at him, gently, happy to move in that direction — and after he's pulled the covers back, he sits, hoping she'll join him. Instead she stands between his knees and cradles his face in her hands, tilting it up so she can kiss him. His hands rest at her waist; she starts unbuttoning his shirt again ( _brazenly_ , she thinks, but doesn't quite care). He reaches up her back, asking permission with his eyes (which she grants immediately with an urgent nod) but the zipper is too high for him to reach, so she laughs softly and turns in his arms to give him access.

He practically forgets to breathe when she turns and he's supposed to open her dress. How long has he been dreaming of this? Good god, he can barely get his fingers to close around the zipper but now it's moving for him, the dress opening, her tender shoulders exposed. He pauses there to run his fingertips across her skin, appreciating her delicate shoulderblades — and _freckles_.

 _Freckles?_ He'd thought there was no way this woman could be more endearing, but she's proven him wrong. He gently urges her to step forward so he can stand behind her and drop kisses where his hands have been.

Chills run through her as he presses his mouth to her exposed skin. She might've known he would be like this. But worry had clouded her thoughts, and so this adoration comes as something of a surprise. She lets out a little shaking sigh as he undoes the zipper the rest of the way.

Slowly, gently, he lays her skin bare. And underneath, _o lord have mercy,_ is her corset over a thin cotton shift. Unsure what to do next, he lays his hands on her shoulders. She inhales, shaking, and turns toward him.

Oh but he's so beautiful… so gentle and passionate and restrained. She gives him a shy smile that becomes a soft little laugh. His hands hover over her and she takes them and presses them to her shoulders, pulling the fabric of the dress forward and off her shoulders. It slips down; she pulls her arms out of the sleeves and steps out of the dress as it falls to the floor. He takes it, letting her step out of it, and drapes it carefully over her coat and his tie. Exposed in corset and shift, she shivers.

He notices it with dismay — he won't stand for it, her getting chilled! With a speed that surprises her only a little, he unbuttons his shirt and discards it. And she takes a breath and exhales, looking at him sideways with a bit of fear in her eyes as she opens up her corset. There's no need for that fear, of course — but even more ridiculous, he doesn't even see her little glance at him, because he felt silly fretting about his socks and so he's taken that exact moment to remove them.

He looks up just as she's taking her first deep breath out of the corset. Her hair down around her shoulders sways with each of her movements. She glances up at him, looks away again, and then snaps her eyes to his because he's staring at her with an expression that could only be described as _lustful._

There they are, she in stockings, knickers, and shift, he in trousers, underwear, and undershirt. At least they're on even footing… sort of. For a few seconds she matches his stare, then looks away, down, at nothing. She feels awfully exposed in her shift, so she crosses her arms over her chest, as much from cold as from the cacophony of emotions.

With his brow furrowed in concern, he approaches her. She looks up into his eyes again, desperation making itself known in her expression.

"Oh Elsie."

She laughs and it's half sob. But he wraps her up in his arms, warming her.

"Elsie, I _love_ you," he tells her. His voice is soft but insistent, his breath hot against her ear, his nose buried in her hair.

"I love you," he repeats in a whisper, and pulls back to look at her, his eyes full of hope.

"I love you too," she whispers. She pushes tears away, then smiles bravely.

"We don't have to..." he begins, then trails off, too proper to finish the sentence.

"Oh... Oh no," she says vaguely. At his confused, stricken expression, she needs to speak. "Charlie," she whispers, taking a moment to indulge in a loving smile at his name before letting her expression turn serious again. "I want to."

* * *

 _tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

_"We don't have to..." he begins, then trails off, too proper to finish the sentence._

 _"Oh... Oh no," she says vaguely. At his confused, stricken expression, she needs to speak. "Charlie," she whispers, taking a moment to indulge in a loving smile at his name before letting her expression turn serious again. "I want to."_

* * *

And she reaches up to him, wraps her arms around his shoulders, and kisses him. He dares let his hands rest at her waist (which is warm, soft, practically _naked_ , he realizes, a thought that makes his fingers flex against her as he inhales sharply through his nose).

She inhales swiftly, a gasp of pleasure breaking their kiss as his hands come around her back, holding her close to him. His hands — so warm, _hot_ through her thin shift — press and explore… and she's wondering how she's going to manage to make him touch her breasts.

And if she can possibly undo his trousers. If he'll think her very improper.

He's wondering the same, rather. If she'll really let him touch her between her legs. He wants to know what that's like. He's dreamed of her thighs; he's been embarrassed these past few days to wake in... an _unfamiliar_ state. (If only that were his state _now_ , he laments, but the thought of touching her that way makes his breath catch, makes him jerk forward just a fraction, before he regains control.)

Ah but she's noticed! How very uncomfortable. But she looks up at him with kind eyes... are they hungry eyes? Heavy-lidded, certainly. He's lost in them until he realizes with a jolt that she's taking his braces down; the phrase _there's no going back_ flings itself through his mind.

Her hands slowly move down his arms (she doesn't quite dare stroke them down his chest, no), skid off at his elbows, leaving his braces there (he's looking rather undone), and land at... oh dear, at his hips. He jerks forward again, to his immense embarrassment. And she smiles, a tiny shaking smile with bitten lip and eyes asking permission and he's just watching as she moves her hands down toward... toward...

He stops her, his hands covering hers. She looks up at him, wounded. He rushes to explain with a question.

"Are you sure?" His voice cuts out halfway through.

She nods. "I want you," she whispers to him for the first time, and he is overcome. Luckiest of men indeed. And he releases her hands and doesn't know what to do with his own hands anymore as she undoes his flies.

Her fingers somehow don't fumble with the buttons. And he's half-erect, she notices with a thrill. This is what she does to him. She doesn't know how fast it goes with men, human men — how fast it… _arises_ , that is; she's seen farm animals mating but that was ages ago and and and ... very different. Shaking that off-putting thought away, she focuses on him. And _them_ , together. And the sounds of quiet restrained desperation he's making as she works to free him from his trousers.

He shrugs out of the braces that had remained caught at his elbows. And he helps her, stepping out of his trousers when they've fallen. Determined, she takes a deep breath ( _steels herself_ ) and hooks her fingers under the hem of his undershirt.

He's self-conscious, suddenly, idiotically. He's never been more sure that _he_ wants _her_. But he hopes she won't be disgusted. That she won't want to flee before his nude body. _The hell with it,_ he thinks, pushes past her hands, and peels the undershirt off himself. And he looks at her, cautious and defiant all at once. She's the one with the advantage now, covered as she is by her shift as he stands there facing her possible rejection. The phrase _with my body I thee worship_ dances through his head, and he _hopes_.

He's afraid. She sees what it is and understands his sudden worry better than either one of them would've expected.

But it's absurd because she wants him. She can _smell_ him. Cologne and subtle sweat and whatever is it he puts in his hair (she stifles a wicked little grin at that). The scent is drawing her closer, her hands on his chest at last, his arms loose around her. His palms are under her elbows, oddly enough, but it feels right so they don't bother worrying about it... much.

And she dares touch him, gentle fingertips trailing down from his shoulder to his... well, his nipples, yes, it seems odd to call them that with how different they are from her own, which are visibly straining against the cotton of her shift.

Such restraint. Such ridiculous agony: He wants to tear her shift in two, pull off the knickers she's probably wearing, and touch her, but he cannot fathom pleasing her in his feeble state of half-readiness.

Instead he pulls her close again, kissing her and trying to remove her shift at the same time — she grins against his mouth and helps him, pulling it up over her head and throwing it aside.

Her breasts are bared to him, beautiful, pale and sweet and here are her pink nipples and her skin is so warm… and she looks so delicate, so small, though he knows she is strong. She makes a move to cover herself but he comes closer, takes her hand and pulls her toward the bed.

"Please," he manages to sound so polite as desire rages inside him.

"Please what?" She asks him breathlessly.

"Just, er, please, can I... Can I touch you?"

She nods shyly, wondering what it will be, if it will hurt.

And he sits on the bed and draws her close to stand between his thighs, his hands at her waist — and he kisses her chest. Right in the middle. Right over her breastbone. Somehow it's more intimate than if he'd immediately cupped her breasts… which she desperately hopes he will, soon. Now it's her turn to plead, to clutch at his head and whisper " _please_ ," followed by " _please touch me..."_

He realizes immediately, and with astonishment, that she's pulling him toward her breast. _Forbidden territory_ , he thinks, every boy's dream. And so he brings his hand up between them to cup one breast (she shivers) and then both (she shudders and moans). And then his thumbs brush across her nipples, making her knees buckle. Startled, she gasps, her hand clutching his shoulder.

"Don't worry, I've got you," he whispers soothingly, holding her with an arm tight around her waist. She accepts his support, needing it even more as he decides to try kissing her breast. She moans out loud at that, to his ( _relief_ ) delight. Another idea occurs to him: he thinks to open his mouth — carefully, he doesn't want to frighten her and he'll stop at the first sign of hesitation.

But no, she's pushing her nipple into his mouth, letting herself be caught up in the alarming pleasure that shoots through her body. She needs something; she needs more — she doesn't quite know how to get there but it has to happen. Tangling her hands in his hair, she presses him against her and then, surprisingly, she pulls him away.

He looks up at her in confusion, his mouth open, eyes half-shut. He looks drugged and eager all at once.

"I... I need to sit..."

"Are you alright?" He asks breathlessly, a little worried through the blur of desire.

"Mmhmm," she squeaks as she moves away to sit on the bed next to him. She reaches for him and immediately he turns to her, his hand on her breast and his mouth on her neck. Her arching back presses her breasts against him and he moans deeply. Her own high moan makes him press her nipple, rolling it gently between his fingers. She cries out at that and he swears to himself that he'll do everything in his power to hear her make that sound as often as possible.

She's moving again. Why? No! He's frustrated, desperate, until he realizes she's getting up to remove her knickers. She's got a garter belt to contend with first, and as she undoes the clips that hold it to her stockings, he watches — until he can't stand it; he's got to ask.

"Might I do that?"

She looks up, surprised — he's serious.

"Alright," she tells him, and steps a bit closer. Ah, but she's underestimated the effect this tender service would have on her: he quickly figures out the clips, and once he's unhooked them he slowly rolls the stockings down her thigh, following the material with a hand stroking along her skin. She struggles to stay steady, almost losing her balance to the pleasure of his touch as he caresses down her thigh, around the back of her knee (this makes her gasp and clutch his shoulder), then over her calf as she lifts her foot to free it.

Her stockings are gone, the belt as well, and he asks her permission to remove her knickers. She nods and he pulls the ribbon, this unknown garment with its fancy ties (he doesn't know about the opening in her knickers, she thinks; maybe someday she'll show him). The fabric slides down her naked legs and she steps out of it.

And she's so beautiful. Pale skin and freckles, and curly auburn hair between her legs. He tries to look his fill of her but he'll never get enough — his eyes dart from the roundness of her hips to the grace of her collarbones to the strength of her thighs.

He sees hesitation in her face, her eyes darting down to his groin where he's straining, but just barely, against his shorts. _Right then,_ he thinks. _Off with these_. He takes a deep breath and stands to remove the last thing covering his thwarted attempt to rise for her.

As he stands naked before her, his eyes plead with her not to laugh at him.

She's a bit breathless when she sees all of him for the first time. He is _beautiful_ , strong and lovely and as she looks up his body to his eyes, she sees how afraid he is — ah, but there is no need for _that._ She holds her hands out to him, he takes them, and she pulls them to the bed.

This time she sits by his side — and here is her hand on his thigh. He gives a start, and it's so strange to think it, but maybe she doesn't _know_ he's supposed to be more ready than this? His anxiety feels so absurd, but he's terribly afraid he won't be enough for her.

She sits back among the pillows and frowns a little in confusion; why isn't he coming to her?

"Charlie?"

She sees him snap out of… something… and look at her.

And he gasps, because there she is, all he's ever wanted, his beloved, gorgeous and naked and wanting him to come to her.

He moves fairly quickly then, _sliding into bed with her_ (that phrase echoes through his mind, taunting and delighting him by turns). And she saves him, reaching for his shoulder as she presses up to kiss his lips.

His hand hovers near her shoulder. She breaks the kiss, looks down.

"Will you..."

Her question hangs there but he has no idea what it is, which direction it goes.

He just watches her, unable to speak (or indeed to move, with all this uncertainty).

But she takes his hand and moves it to her breast. Her eyes close when he cups his hand around it. His body is full of relief and as she lies back and he rests on an elbow, he starts ( _barely, a little_ ) to leave his worried thoughts behind.

She's on her back with him caressing her. He starts at her breast, then grows bolder, moving the heat of his hand down over her ribcage, up again to her shoulder, over her breast again, and on to the other breast. A phrase runs through his mind: _luckiest man in the world_. Maybe it'll be alright: he feels things starting to move and harden and tighten. Such a relief.

She bites her lip to hold in the moans, watching him worship her body. His hand is heavy silk over her skin; she's never felt anything better.

He doesn't dare go lower than her belly. He barely can get that far, even. But her shaking breath as he teases her (he doesn't know it; he thinks he's just exploring her body and hoping she'll like it, but the truth is, he's _teasing_ her) is making him more and more aroused. All at once he must take her nipple into his mouth. To do so, he has to move, and as he does, she instinctively spreads her legs to let him kneel between them.

 _Holy... blessed, holy mother of God_ _and all the saints,_ he thinks, _and I'm not even Catholic_. She's arching her back, wrapping her legs around his as best she can when all she can get to are his knees. She's moaning now, high quiet little sounds as he pulls and licks at her nipples. His hands braced on either side of her, he dips his head over and over again to kiss and caress her breasts. He'd never have imagined it could be like this. That she would respond to his touch with such passion overwhelms him and arouses him. _Fully_ — he's finally ready for her and he hopes soon she might be ready for him too, but he doesn't dare think of it… yes he does; he wants to be inside her with an urgency he's never felt before.

So he moves away, tilting out from between her legs and she looks up, wounded and confused.

"Wh- where are you going?" She whispers, the most coherent thought that's been in her head for long minutes.

"Nowhere. Just—"

 _Ohhhh_. He lays his hand low on her belly and she jolts toward him, a wobbly moan escaping her. She clamps her lips down on it, embarrassed, but he just kisses her, smiling. Then his expression turns serious again, questioning as he moves his hand lower on her belly.

Realizing where he's headed, she sucks in a breath and holds it, looking wide-eyed at him. But as he makes to take his hand away and apologize (he doesn't even know what he's apologizing for anymore), she claps her hand over his and presses.

"Please," she begs him. And smiles helplessly. And lifts her hand, leaving his there, letting her hand float to his arm, his shoulder, his cheek, trailing down his chest — and her fingers curl into the soft silver hair there when she feels the touch of his hand on her hip. On her thigh… then hovering over her and landing on the thigh closer to him.

She gasps, parting her legs, reaching up to kiss him in order to hide her nerves. (Her burning desire, more like, but she's not entirely certain she's supposed to feel this, to sound like this — her sighs and whimpers are by turns carefully controlled and … and _wanton_.)

 _Damn it._ He's practically touching the holy of holies, and he's lost his erection again. Ugh, what _thinking too much_ will do to him. Yes, he's worried about hurting her, about being too rough, about wanting her too badly.

 _If you want me you can have me._

Feeling a stirring again as he remembers those words, he drops his head to her neck and kisses that tender skin... as he finally dares touch her _there_.

Her breath rushes out of her as his fingers slide down lightly over her sex, gently covering her, cupping her. She's breathing rapidly now, air fluttering in and out as his steady hand rests against her.

Her thighs slowly open and close as she writhes against him, whispering "yes" and "please," clutching his shoulder with one hand, the other one splayed flat on the sheets, flexing as she curls up to meet him.

He is in awe. He's beginning to believe he really might be enough for her, if he can touch her like this before they...

Ah, but she's pressing up against him, opening up just enough so that he feels the first touch of wetness there.

He gasps, and asks permission with his eyes — permission that she grants with her hips rolling up to meet him and her hand fluttering over his, pressing it against herself once before her hand flees again to bury its fingers in the blanket.

Slowly, softly, he slides his fingers in between. The heat and moisture and silky skin take his breath away. But — but she's stopped breathing! She's gone completely still and silent, her brow furrowed and her mouth open... did he hurt her? Terrified he's done something wrong, he stills his hand against her. And when that feels too intimate to him, he removes his touch entirely.

Her eyes snap open in frustration. It felt wonderful and now he's... stopped.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, turning away in his guilt, heartbroken that he's not pleasing her. That she has tired of him. It makes no sense but that's what his anxious mind insists is the truth.

Her lips round into a "wh-" and he's pulling even farther away. And there she is, laid out naked, legs open, alone. It was the greatest pleasure she's ever known, and he's taken it away. And now he's apologizing? _Why_? Something must have been wrong; she must have done something wrong.

She sobs, once, and his heart breaks as he thinks to leave her, give her some peace and privacy after he's pushed her too far.

"I hurt you... didn't I?" He thinks he ought to pull up the blankets to cover her.

By now the tears are flowing down her face and she's sitting up, pulling the blankets up for herself, hugging her knees until she realizes what he's said. It makes no sense.

"No," she says vehemently, a half desperate bitter laugh. All the silly little ways his words have hurt her in the past and _now_ he thinks he's done it?

"No," she chokes out again. "No."

"But you stopped moving, and you...I thought something was wrong. I thought —"

She's shaking her head. She's about ready to give up entirely (for now) and go to sleep after all of this exhausting nonsense. But she's so on edge, her body thrumming to his touch and the tension in the room and the air was heavy and warm and thick but now it feels like a rush of cold air. Like a door thrown open, like an interruption from the bloody staff. But they're alone and… and _why_?

"I'm sorry... You went all still and silent and I was afraid…" ( _this is so embarrassing_ ) "... that I'd done something wrong." (He's floundering, searching for the right words and he feels like an idiot because now he can see he was mistaken, but how to get started again?)

"I was afraid that I'd hurt you. Or that you didn't like it."

She laughs (he fears that she's laughing _at him_ ), closes her eyes, and tears flow down her face.

Shaken, he is about to ask something else (he doesn't even know what) when she suddenly looks up at him.

"No," she manages, "quite the contrary." She blushes and looks away. "But I... now... I." Flustered, she lifts her hands and lets them drop again, onto her knees. And looks at him, imploring him to touch her again. Just the thought of it makes her shiver. His look of desperation is maddening; he _isn't moving_ and how on earth is she going to get him to—

" _Wouldyoutouchmeagain_?" It's comes out so quickly he's not sure he heard right. He asks her to repeat it. Embarrassment upon embarrassment. She looks at him helplessly, steels herself, and speaks,

"Touch me again. Please?" Desperation is there in her tone.

Stunned, he stares at her, then jolts into presence again.

"God yes. Come here," he growls, instantly hard — and impulsively, as she moves to lie down again, he curls his hand around her waist, tucks his head under her chin, and pulls her toward him.

Surprised at the sudden movement (delighted, relieved he's holding her so very close), she slides her hand over around his shoulders, holding him close and driving her fingers into his hair.

It's clumsy and heartfelt and desperate, and she gasps, _giggles_ as she suddenly finds herself pulled almost on top of him.

And then he's kissing her, her neck, her collarbones, down to her breasts, ohhhh, his mouth at her nipple, skipping to the other one, his hand on her breast, then down her waist, cupping her bum! She shivers, draping her leg over him like it's the most natural thing, and now she can feel his hardness, hot and full, pressing against her thigh, and she lets her hand sneak down his body to touch him, really touch him, gentle fingertips tentative on him —

He jerks in surprise, tips his head up, and kisses her, desperate for her mouth. She kisses him back, breathing in sharply through her nose and holding him to her, her arm slung tight around his body, her other hand holding his head.

Their teeth bruise their lips and they come up for air, wincing, smiling at the silly pain of it.

"I love you," she tells him, their arms tangled and their foreheads together.

His eyes are as dark and pained and full of love as they were that night they first kissed, but now he dips his head to kiss her neck, pressing the words to her skin, "I love you."

And she holds on to him, her knees bent and her thighs open as he caresses her body, slipping his hand over her skin until he gets there, his hand between her legs — this time she pushes up against his hand — letting out a shy little laugh that she silences against the palm of her hand —

"I love that sound," he tells her, and she laughs a little more, breaking off in a trembling moan as his fingers slide over her.

He touches her until she's twisting there against the sheets, her mouth at his shoulder, marking him as she sucks hard on his skin. His hand is doing things to her she'd never thought possible. Her body arches and bucks without her control and she pulls at him, begging him to come to her, opening herself to him and telling him in a whisper that she's ready, and please please won't he come to her — and she doesn't say it, but she wants him to come fill the aching emptiness she's never felt before but it's shocking in its urgency and she is so far gone she doesn't bother anymore with worrying whether he'll think her wanton —

And he is aching, fully ready for her and when she asks him to come to her — _begging_ , he's never heard anything like it, barely a whisper, all she's said is "please... yes... now" but he thinks he knows what she means so he climbs between her legs again. She reaches for him, hands flailing through the air before landing lightly on his arm and his shoulder — and once they get there they're strong, with an urgent grip that takes his breath away.

Her body is trembling with anticipation; she curls up toward him then releases. She has an urge to squeeze her thighs together (but squeezing them _around him_ would be even better) and she spreads her legs as wide as she can, ready to _take_ him _._

The sight of her splayed out like that ( _beautiful, exposed, reaching for him_ ) makes him fall forward on his hands and knees, worshipping her mouth with his. The truth is there's nothing he wants more than to be inside her but at the last second he has to tell her...

"Please, I don't want to hurt you, just tell me if you need me to st—"

"Yes yes just please — come -to me please" she whispers, pleading, almost saying _come into me_ but she doesn't quite feel she can say that—

They brush together by accident, the tip of him sliding silky and hot against her. She gasps and moves her hand from his shoulder to his back, trying to pull him closer.

He pushes slightly... Her eyes go wide. Her breath shakes... She's encouraging him; her lips parted in a little smile, she looks at him and nods. With his eyes on hers, he keeps going, slowly pressing into her. She pushes up — he slides in deeper. And inch by inch, they come together until there is no space between and she is filled, he is buried inside her (she didn't know it would be like that, hot and hard and... _hard_ , is what she's thinking). It hurts, just a little... until it doesn't.

Muscles she didn't know she had are relaxing, softening to welcome him inside her for the first time. Oh but she would like to stay like this for a long time, his weight wonderful on top of her, her legs pushed far apart by his hips.

He falls forward, careful not to crush her, but a deep sound of pleasure escapes him. He tries to bury it in the pillow but manages instead to start pressing desperate kisses against her neck. She's trembling, even her breath is trembling, and suddenly he hopes he hasn't hurt her so he pulls his upper body back to make sure she's alright (he doesn't dare move… _there…_ yet, but he needs to see her.

They stay like that, unmoving, for long seconds of realization (ecstasy is what it is, but they have no word for it). Her eyes are closed, her eyebrows up in wonder. Her breath comes in short shaking gasps and leaves in frantic sighs.

Deliberately, she tries to calm it by taking a deep breath and pushing it out through open lips in the shape of a kiss. And she opens her eyes.

She blinks heavily. Such a strange phrase, but it seems to fit. Blinks heavily, slowly, and she looks up at him, (down at him? who knows when you're lying on your back, but there he is) — she sees wonder and concentration and a question on his face.

Concentration, wonder... This is everything he's ever wanted and yet he'd never known it could be like this. _He is inside her_. He's got to do something, soon, probably; he's pretty sure he's supposed to be moving, but this is so hot and wet and ...perfect? Yes. An embrace around him.

His mind reels at the reality of this and he's got the feeling he's not making much sense and he might also be running out of thoughts because _oh lord she's actually running her leg up along his._ Her body tenses around him when she moves like that, when she moves _at all..._

Both of her legs are wrapped around him and the angle has changed and he has still not moved but maybe that's alright because she's smiling at him. He's never seen her like this. Well. Of course he hasn't, he tells himself. But he's never quite even had the courage to _imagine_ her like this, flushed and beaming with her hair spread out on the pillow around her, and is that a sheen of sweat at her hairline?

It is. She feels his breath as a cooling little nothing across her forehead.

A small laugh from her, breathless and kind, and she brings a surprisingly steady hand up to his face, her eyebrows high, her eyes loving as his stubble scratches her fingertips. Who'd have thought she'd like _that_ feeling? But it's wonderful, and she gives him another smile — tiny, this smile, rather wicked, a curl of the lip, a flash of white teeth that melts away as her eyes slide closed again and she drags her thumb down over his lips.

He opens his mouth to kiss her thumb and ends up taking it in, gently playing teeth and tongue over it until she withdraws, unwrapping her legs from around him and bracing her feet on the bed. She gasps softly, a little breathless _oh_ of recognition... And before he can wonder if he's done something wrong she's _moving_.

She's ... It could only be described as _rocking_. Her hips move back and forth, slowly, surprising both of them with every sensation.

He is deep inside her and he pulls back just a touch, earning a quiet moan, before burying himself in her again — earning a louder moan which she seems anxious to silence.

Confused and bold at once, he grins at her and pulls out once more. Farther than before, but slowly — agonizingly so.

"We don't have to be quiet," he tells her. And she laughs. It's an amazing sound, part giggle, part moan, and as he slowly pushes into her again, she rolls up to meet him.

Her hands rest on his arms, but she feels bold and soon she moves them, running her hands down his body, grabbing his bum and pulling him into her. He makes a sound she's never heard before — a deep moan of pleasure, and then they start to move together. He pulls out, then presses into her, she pushes up against him and together they find a steady, slow rhythm.

She feels like she's chasing something. Too excited to be embarrassed by her actions, too busy concentrating on him and her, and lost to this all-consuming pleasure, barely aware of what she's doing, she tilts her hips back and forth, finding the different angles that make it even better.

He's thrusting into her, _yes_ , drunk on the way she's moving (what is she _doing_ down there; it baffles him and he cannot think) and the fact that they are really doing this _together_.

They speed up; her eyes wide, she's nodding frantically, digging her nails into his upper arm (they'll find the little crescent moon indentations later and gasp and, too exhausted to kiss them directly, she'll kiss her fingertips and run them over the marks).

His movements get fast and his rhythm is all over the place and he's gasping now, his blood rushing as he feels her from the inside — the idea makes him come immediately, his body stiffening with one last hard thrust pushing deep inside her. (Her thighs have never been open so wide and she'll feel it tomorrow but _this_... his strong body between her legs brings her _joy_ along with the pleasure of it.)

She's shaking, her legs up around him, her arms pulling him down to her. He doesn't want to crush her, but he lets himself rest on elbows and knees

And he rests on her too, yes, because she _wants_ him there — she's holding him as closely as possible, shaking with the pleasure that's been building toward she doesn't know what, but he seems to be done now... so they must be done, then, she supposes. He lifts his head from the pillow to kiss her neck fervently, whispering incoherent words of love and gratitude ... and apology? She doesn't know why, exactly.

He's not sure, not entirely, but he thinks she needs something more and he'd like to give it to her if he could just get up the courage to offer it. The slow back-and-forth movement of her hips seems to confirm it: she didn't... well. She _didn't_ , and he did, and he'd like to ... well, he'd like to please her. Not to mention that he'd like to see it happen.

He's softened inside her and he fears he's crushing her (and that he's made a mess and he should help her clean up before they… before they continue? Yes, well. That's an awkward topic)

When she feels him pull away, just slightly, she loosens her hold on him and looks up at his face. She realizes her hips are rocking against him and stops it immediately, thinking it improper now that they're done. But it felt so _good;_ how can it be over…?

Through the haze of her arousal and self-doubt, she notices he's looking, um, _hungry_ at her again, like the time he first kissed her… She blinks. And trembles as he pulls out of her. Her breath is still stuttering in and she holds it, embarrassed to be _still wanting_ after that. She lets it out, slowly, through her nose, biting her lip hard to keep from moaning.

And he smiles at her. Shyly. But then, feeling suddenly bold (ah! he's got a plan, he'll help her clean up and then he'll see if she'll let him touch her, and this plan gives him joy and trepidation and he's impatient to get to it), he presses a kiss to her breastbone, whispers "I'll be _right_ back," and then he's gone.

She lies completely still, listening to him in the kitchen. She hears water running and makes a quick decision. Carefully, she rolls out of bed, wraps up in her dressing gown, and heads for the washroom.

After, she feels a bit calmer, but the sight of him takes her breath away. It's shocking; he's _naked_! and then there's his mussed hair and those _eyes_ , —

"Oh," he says, stalled midstep by her emerging from the loo. There's a cloth in his hands, and a bowl of hot water, and he's just standing there, confused.

"What's that?" she asks gently.

"It's, er, I." He sets it aside. "Never mind."

She frowns for a second, then seems to let it go.

It seems he's heading back to bed. Naked. That's odd, maybe? But it sounds lovely, she decides. So she turns away from him to take off her dressing gown and doesn't know just what to do with the appreciative sigh she hears behind her. Steeling herself, she turns around and there he is in bed, bare-chested and waiting for her.

"You're beautiful," he tells her softly. "Come join me?"

Smiling shyly, she nods and approaches. The dear man lifts the blankets for her and she slips in next to him. Immediately his arms go around her — she's surprised but it's rather wonderful — and she settles in, nestled in against him.

"Elsie," he whispers into her hair.

"Hmm?" she hums against his chest.

It's not that she's sleepy. Far from it, in fact; the thrumming excitement from before hasn't entirely gone away and now here is his hand caressing down her back, pulling her closer — and boldly, she opens herself to him, draping one leg over his.

Nothing could have been more encouraging for him. He sighs in relief and delight (she can hear the smile in it) and runs his hand along the back of her thigh.

"Elsie, my darling, may I... may I touch you?"

She tenses at the question: of course he is already touching her, quite intimately, and so the only thing he could mean is, can he touch her _there_. There's nothing she wants more, even though it seems a bit forbidden, especially when he surely means he'd like to touch her with his _hands_ —

"Yes," she breathes, and he's dipping his head to kiss her lips. She meets him and moans softly — his hand leaves her bottom ( _cold;_ she misses his touch there already) to cup her cheek. Then his hand moves ( _oh_ _thank heaven_ ) down her body again, lingering on her bottom and stroking her thigh.

Lord above, the things his touch does to her. When he cups her breast, she turns onto her back, pulling him with her. And _yes_ , she's so glad — he takes the hint and fully caresses her body, stroking down her front and up again, reverent as he rises up on one elbow to kiss her breast, daring again to suck and pull at her nipple.

Her response to him is better than anything he's imagined. She arches her back and holds her breath and gasps and he's not even touching her _there_ yet. But oh, how he wants to. Her legs are closed, not tight but not open. Stroking his hand down her body, he both sees and feels her shudder when he reaches the line where her thigh meets her belly.

"Elsie, you're beautiful," he mutters, and she laughs, high and wobbly, her legs opening just a bit as her body tenses. Ah, here is his chance. He rests a hand on her inner thigh with just a hint of pressure, pulling gently, encouraging her to open up to him.

And she does. Ah, this is so wanton but she doesn't _care_. There is nothing but heat and love and tension — and pleasure, as he strokes her sensitive skin, getting close but never touching her _there_. He gently pulls her thighs apart — she gasps; it's unheard of, this sensation of openness, exposure, of being spread wide. She should be embarrassed, maybe, but they are alone and this is her husband and when she opens her eyes (barely) to look at him, he's wearing an expression of... Of blissful concentration? Yes, perhaps that's it, but she's losing track of words as his hand comes to touch her at last, stroking her where no one has before (she's never touched herself, no; that would not be proper and anyway, she didn't know how).

He doesn't know how either, not really, but her body is teaching them both. Her skin there is slippery and delicate; there are unfamiliar contours and he tries to be gentle ( _his light touch is driving her mad_ ). His fingers slip over something; there's a little nub there and she seems to like it when he strokes along it. Experimentally, he starts moving in little circles around it; she practically weeps with pleasure. He's in a state of perpetual wonder at what her body is capable of. Then he realizes she's talking to him in a desperate whisper —

"Inside me — please — I want you—"

As much as he'd like to, he is not a young man anymore. But he kneels between her legs, rests his fingertips against her, and looks up at her —

"May I?"

At her desperate nod, he opens her up and and slowly, gently, slides one finger inside. He… oh my, he can _see_ her — it's shocking, he knows, but he can't look away from the secret flesh, the tender skin, the place where his finger disappears into her body.

He wonders: maybe she would like him to touch her on the outside too? So he lays his other hand over her, questioning. The answer comes in the form of her body bucking up to press into his hand —

"Sorry," she giggles, and all he can do is grin and tell her again that she is beautiful and that she needn't worry.

"More — please? Inside m-" she begs and he adds a second finger, pressing into her and pulling out, slowly. He starts moving his other hand over her, his thumb gently glancing over the little nub he felt. He doesn't know what he's doing, but it seems to be working.

She's never felt so good and the pleasure just seems to be growing and growing, like before, but he isn't stopping, just concentrating, watching her as he slides in and out and strokes her and she rolls her hips back and forth.

Something changes. It's even better than before, but now she feels a desperate need for this _not to stop_ , because something is building, and she thinks hazily that if he stops touching her now, _she will do it herself_ , somehow, whatever that means.

Her movements are different; her cries higher, more breathless, more urgent, (each one sounds like a question) and he strokes and loves her with eager hands (with more pressure now, it seemed she wanted that) — and inside, he can feel her starting to tense around his fingers. His eyes flick up to her face: she looks pained and ecstatic and hopeful all at once, her eyes closed as her shoulders press into the mattress. One of her hands clutches at the sheets; the other is above her head, tangled in her hair. He can't watch her and do what he's doing at the same time so he returns his attention to between her legs where he's trying his best to give her what she wants.

And he's touching every place that needs contact so badly — her body cries out for more and she's actually whispering to him, _don't stop don't stop don't stop_ , and he isn't stopping, and — and something comes over her. Her whole body tenses, gloriously, for a long moment — his touch has brought her to this incomprehensible burst of pleasure, this ecstasy, this _something_ that makes her moans incoherent; her back arches, her head presses back hard into the pillows, her thighs go tight around him. As his movements slow to a stop, he curls his fingers inside her, and her body convulses in a few more last shocks — and then she goes blissfully limp, out of breath and laughing.

She's _laughing_ , this gorgeous woman; he's never seen anything so beautiful as what he's just witnessed. And he's not moving, he can still feel her body clenching and releasing around him, the sound of her voice joyful. He's full of pride and awe all at once. _He did this._ Well, she and he both, but he brought her this pleasure and he's overwhelmed with happiness. He knows he's got a big stupid grin on his face, and she's still at it, giggling away — she opens her eyes and beams at him. Then she tells him he can pull out — _slowly please_ — and as he does, she gasps and curls her body, pulling at him so he'll lie down next to her.

He comes along willingly and then she's kissing him everywhere she can reach, holding on tight to him and pressing her body against his. She giggles again and whispers an indulgent _thank you_ before tucking her head under his chin and wrapping her leg around him. He laughs a little, helpless in the face of all this beautiful silliness, and holds her in his arms.

They give a deep, contented sigh together, and then they both give a huff of laughter at themselves.

"I love you," he tells her, giving her a full-body squeeze. She smiles against his chest.

"I love you too, Charlie."

"Time to sleep, I think?"

Ah, but it's lovely with his voice rumbling next to her ear, deep in his chest. She nods sleepily against him.

"Mm-hmm."

"We might need blankets."

"Hmmmpf."

He couldn't be any more charmed. He's never seen her sleepy before (let alone the rest!). Chuckling at the fact that he's currently the more lucid of the two of them, he carefully extracts himself from her embrace (he smiles at her little grumbled protest at his movement) and finds the covers where they've been kicked down to the foot end of the bed.

He pulls them up, glancing back at her — she hasn't moved one bit since he sat up. _Delightful woman_ , he thinks.

He lies back down facing her, bringing the covers with him — and immediately she turns away, curling into him with a long, sleepy hum. So he wraps his big body around her, one arm awkward between them, the other draped over her waist. Her last waking act of the evening is to take his hand and place it over her breast. He gasps slightly; that's a pleasant surprise and quite a nice way to fall asleep.

He settles in behind her, nestling into the pillows, and whispers _good night_ (to which he hears only a hum in reply). A few minutes later, he too falls asleep, and they sleep like that until morning, curled warmly together in a spent, blissful heap.

* * *

 **xoxo**


End file.
